This Mood Of Mine

This mood of mine, 
serotonin desert,
endorphin drought — oh,
science be damned:
to put it plain, I’m killing me
and I don’t know why.

It’s been so long
since a manic storm
took its toll upon me
that I almost miss it.
Almost. Folks assume
those highs are a pleasure;

let me tell you: no,
no and no again. The crest
of that wave rises too high
and the adrenaline lift
only makes you too loose
to handle the damage

when you plunge
to the trough 
that waits below.
Right now, though, 
I’d welcome the ride
as a change of pace,

for mood of mine, bipolar’s
trench, shallow grave
that deepens
as I lie in it,
I swear I will fight you
as long as I can.

This too shall pass, some say.
This too shall fade away
and I will remain, 
but none who speak of this can say 
what will be left:
a man alive or a mummy,

a nest of bones weathered
to leather scraps and white junk
or a croaking mess begging
for anything wet at all
to drown in. To put it plain
I am
 killing me

and although
it might save me
to do so,
to trickle forth a little pain
for public view,
I can’t even cry.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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